


Exit Signs

by swamplamp



Series: Departures [2]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Thanksgiving, fear in the face of family gatherings, quote on quote roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamplamp/pseuds/swamplamp
Summary: "I'm inviting you to my family's Thanksgiving, you piece of shit."
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: Departures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771378
Comments: 25
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

“What do you mean? You just told her? About us?” Tom asked, the pitch in his voice going up with each question. He hovered over Greg with his eyes darting from left to right. “Should we do something about this?”

Greg couldn’t move from his position lying flat on Tom’s bed, because he was sore from work and Tom had a palm pressing down on his clavicle. “I don’t think it’s going to be an issue. She’s, you know— Edna is one of the good ones. She’s smart about things and she’s nice.” Greg tapped at Tom’s wrist, so Tom moved it and sat up. 

“How do you know she won’t tell other people?”

“Tom, if other people at my work find out that I’m in a relationship with a guy, it’s not a problem. It’s actually pretty normal.”

“But what if this gets out? This is a small town. And people - people at _my_ work will find out and they’ll think I’m some kind of creep, because y—“

"In a town like this, maybe it would help a few people, knowing that an instructor at their community college is gay. Like, it could be a good thing, you know?”

“Okay, again: I’m not gay and you know this,” Tom said. "And, sure. Uh huh. We're a triumph for representation. A real beacon of light for fuck-up homos stumbling through Intro to Business."

“I mean, realistically speaking? People will talk. And maybe some people won’t want to talk to you.” Greg shrugged. “That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Tom jeered. He sat on the edge of the bed, so Greg could only see the side of his face and the downward slope of his shoulder. He added, words tight around a grimace, “I shouldn’t have given you that hickey, probably.”

“Edna complimented you on it. Said you did good work.” Greg laughed, pointing at the darkening mark on his neck. “You’d like her, I think. One of my favorite seniors. She’s got, I don't know, refined tastes, like you do.”

“Just because she talks to you doesn’t mean she has good taste.”

“Mhm.” He inched closer to Tom’s shoulder from behind, then rested his chin there. Greg wondered if Tom had ever gone a day without feeling ashamed of himself for something. He would never ask that out loud, but he wondered. In any case, Greg wouldn’t know who Tom would be without it. Meaner, maybe. Happier, definitely. He planted a kiss against the curve of Tom’s jaw. Tom stayed still, tense.

It was getting late. Greg shuffled towards the edge of the bed to head to his room, but Tom caught his hand and said, “Wait. Stay. Stay for a little longer?”

Greg sat beside him. “Yeah, okay.”

Tom murmured, “On the bed.”

Without a word, he crawled to where he was before and lied down. They spent a lot of time in Tom’s bed, either talking or kissing. He wasn’t sure which one to expect this time around. Tom joined him, placing the side of his face on the flat of Greg’s shoulder. Greg put his arm around him and listened for his sigh.

Tom, eyes to the wall, smoothed a hand down Greg’s stomach and absently worried at the edge of his shirt. Greg wanted Tom to touch him more, put a hand on his bare skin. The want prickled at the back of his neck, so Greg took a deep breath and kept himself still.

“Can I ask? When did you know,” Tom said quietly, “about yourself? About, I don’t know. Being gay.”

“I always kind of knew, I guess? There wasn’t some moment of realization for me.” He paused, thinking about it. “It’s like— I think it’s like when you hear a joke and it makes you laugh. You don’t think about why it’s funny. But you know it is.”

Tom adjusted his head, unsettled. “What does that mean? What sort of jokes was I laughing at, if at all?”

Greg hummed in thought. “I don’t know. I think maybe, um. Maybe you were laughing along with the people around you. You didn’t have a chance to listen to the jokes yourself.” He didn’t know how to explain it. That felt like the wrong thing to say, so he didn’t say anything more. Tom huffed loudly in response. 

Also, maybe Greg was full of shit. He didn’t have any kind of wisdom to guide Tom like some expert gay or whatever. He never thought of himself as “out” but it wasn’t a big secret. People generally never asked and he had no reason to tell or not tell. Then again, people never asked because he didn’t stick around any one place for very long.

“I think that just makes me the biggest idiot alive,” Tom said, voice low.

Greg furrowed his brow. “No,” he replied. But he couldn’t think of a reasonable counter-argument. He squeezed Tom’s arm the way that Tom did to him sometimes and said again, quieter, “No.”

Greg woke up in Tom’s bed, alone. It was morning. He sat up and checked the floor for Tom, because sometimes that was where he ended up in the night.

Tom was on the couch in the living room, wide awake with his legs draped over the length of the cushions and his laptop on his lap. The kitchen sink was full of dishes and there were rows of pastries lined up on the counter.

Greg wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep. He didn’t want to make a habit out of sleeping in Tom's room, but failed pretty often. Meanwhile, Tom wasn’t getting much sleep at all these days. He felt at fault for that.

“Morning,” Tom said brightly. “Hey. Pigman. Stop frowning in the doorway and make us some coffee. Grab a custard tart, if you want. Fresh out of the oven.”

Greg made coffee. There was a particular way that Tom liked it, and Greg wasn't fully sure if Tom knew how to make it himself. It was something he came up with when the fancy coffee machine on their office floor was broken for a whole month. Easy to make in a pinch, as long as he had access to a microwave and a spoon. He handed the drink to Tom and balanced himself atop the armrest of the couch, looking over Tom’s shoulder. Before Greg could see what he was up to, Tom shut his laptop closed and cast it aside along with his coffee.

“Come here,” Tom said. He grabbed Greg’s arm and hauled him onto the couch.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Greg asked with Tom’s head buried in the crook of his neck.

Tom replied, muffled. “I don’t know. Two - three hours?”

“It’s been, like, a month now?”

“It’ll blow over in a few weeks.” Tom was halfway sitting on Greg’s lap at that point, but looked Greg in the eyes. “It’s fine.”

“I can— Do you need anything? I can get you something. Like, medicine.”

Tom scoffed, shuffling backwards onto the couch cushion. “You offering me drugs, Greg?”

“Well. Yeah. Why not?”

“Why not,” he echoed, disbelieving. “What’s wrong with you?”

Greg wondered if Tom thought he was going to steal drugs from his work at the senior home. Greg knew how he could do it without even having to technically steal. But that didn’t mean he would.

But if Tom asked him to. Maybe?

“Um. Just let me know, okay?” Greg said. "You'll sleep better when I find my own place, I think."

Tom looked tired. He had that dull look in his eyes and was trying to hide it by avoiding eye contact. "You still checking out that place for rent tonight?"

"Yeah. The landlord's meeting me right after work. I won't be back until, like, seven? Start dinner without me?"

“Uh huh. Yeah." Tom leaned back and rubbed at his brow. "Yeah. I'm supposed to call my mom in a bit."

"Oh. Is - is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine. She just wants to catch up.”

Greg wasn't sure what that meant, but knew he needed to give Tom space. He grabbed some breakfast from the kitchen and took it to his room.

The days were getting colder, and he could tell by the increasing puffiness of layers worn by the seniors at his work. Although the pool was indoors and heated, the sign-ups for pool use became less frequent too. That didn’t stop a lot of his regulars from stopping by.

“Greg!” he heard echoing off the walls of the empty swimnasium. It was Edna. She was in her regular clothes, velvety material that reminded Greg of theater curtains.

He walked over to meet her halfway. She approached carefully with support of her cane. Standing in front of her, he was a full two feet taller than her. “How’s it going, Edna? You swimming today?”

“No, no,” she answered, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I forgot to tell you the other day. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss you before I left.”

“You’re going somewhere?”

“In a couple days. I’m staying with my eldest daughter’s family in Arizona for a month.”

“A... month? What’s the occasion?”

She laughed. It was a dainty laugh, just like what Greg heard in the old movies that Tom showed him. “Thanksgiving is right around the corner, Greg. Aren’t you going to see your family?”

Greg smiled, apologetic. “No, they’re, uh. They’re not really the type to get together for the holidays.”

“How about your boyfriend’s family?” Edna winked.

“Oh. Oh, um.”

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing. Doesn’t hurt to ask though, don’t you think?”

Greg ran the idea through his head. Tom would probably gawk at the suggestion, best case scenario. He wasn't sure what worst case scenario would look like, but he wondered if property damage would be involved.

“Don’t think too hard on it. Get yourself some turkey, no matter the plan. Stay warm.”

Greg nodded, saying, “Sure. I’ll be here. Take care of yourself.”

Sitting beside the empty pool, he wondered if Thanksgiving was something best left unmentioned. It was an anniversary marker for some pretty murky stuff for him and Tom. Then again, by that logic, most days in the year would be marked by their complicated history.

After work, he parked on the street outside of the house he was set to look at. The place wasn’t that far from Tom’s apartment. Maybe even a walkable distance away.

The landlord turned out to be the head of a bustling household. She lived there in the house, along with her husband, three children, and an exchange student. The more rooms she took Greg through, the more kids seemed to pop out from the walls. It was a little overwhelming. Not really the vibe he was looking for.

“This room would be all yours,” the landlord explained. “And you’d have use of the kitchen, but only on a sign-up basis. There’s a system in place for that, just to avoid traffic jams in the kitchen. Smart, right?”

“Yeah, totally. So. You know what,” Greg said, “I’ll think about it. I think I need some time to talk it through with my current roommate. And I’ll, uh, let you know.” He got out of there with a reasonable degree of tact.

Months ago, after exploding all of his dealings back in the city and hunting Tom down like some kind of bounty hunter, he hadn't meant to stay. He had come to apologize to Tom in person, then start over somewhere on his own with a clean slate. Yet, here he was. Crashing at Tom's place was okay when they were friends. But the more he learned about Tom's relationship with Shiv and the more he noticed how on edge Tom was lately, Greg decided it was time to get his own place. It made sense.

When he got home, Tom was cooking dinner in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He never wore that around the house, except when he was sick.

“You doing okay, Tom?”

Tom swiveled towards him from the stove and raised a brow. “Why.”

“Did you go to work today?”

“Of course I did. What kind of question is that?”

Greg pulled out a chair to sit at the kitchen table. Without thinking, he leaned on the fucked up corner, so the table wobbled precariously while making a _ka-thunk ka-thunk_ sound against the linoleum floors. Tom frowned at him but didn’t say a word. It was already a conversation they had had multiple times. It always boiled down to Tom refusing to buy new furniture and not giving Greg an explanation as to why not. Tom was weird about spending money, especially when it came to furnishing the apartment. Greg assumed that there were certain associations surrounding it for Tom. A sensitive topic lumped together along with many Shiv-related things. But honestly, that table was the worst.

Sitting down, Greg scanned the room for a cardboard piece he could shove under the table leg. There was a single sheet of paper on top of the little bookshelf and it looked oddly pristine. Newly printed out. Greg took a look. “Is this a flight itinerary?”

Tom didn’t respond. He had his back turned, but Greg recognized the tension in his shoulders. Greg was alarmed.

“Tom?”

Tom turned off the stove’s ventilation fan, deepening the silence in the room. He took a seat at the table with Greg, avoiding his eyes. Then he took a breath and spoke steadily and gravely: “My mom had a lot to say on the phone this morning.” He slid the print-out closer to him and wrinkled the top corner of the paper, then straightened it out again. “She wants me to come home for Thanksgiving and she already bought tickets. But, uh, there’s a catch.”

Greg felt a lump in his throat.

Tom looked him in the eyes and said, “She bought two tickets.”

“Okay,” Greg responded cautiously.

“One for me and one for you.”

“Okay. What does that mean?”

“She bought a plane ticket for you.”

Panicked, Greg asked, “Where am I going?”

“To Minnesota.”

“Wait, why?”

Tom groaned and covered his face with both hands. "I'm inviting you to my family's Thanksgiving, you piece of shit."

He squinted across the table. “What?”

“Greg.”

Greg sat back in his seat, trying to assess the situation. Tom was talking about this like it was bad news, but it didn’t feel like bad news at all. He bit at his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling, for Tom’s sake. He asked, “Do - do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes,” Tom answered, eyes averted. “No. I don’t know.”

Greg picked up the print-out to read it through. “Why would your mom do this? You told her that I’m, uh... that I’m living with you? How’d she get my information to get me a ticket?”

“I hadn’t told her anything. She just has her ways,” Tom said. “This is why everybody in the Twin Cities is scared shitless of her.”

“We should go,” Greg suggested. “I mean, she already bought the tickets, so.”

Tom gave him a pained look. Greg knew he didn’t mean it. Tom left the table to serve them dinner. Greg had briefly met Mr. and Mrs. Wambsgans at Tom’s wedding. Tom wasn’t even there to introduce them. Greg had heard something in Mr. Wambsgans’ voice that was familiar to him, so he couldn’t help but approach them before the rehearsal. They hadn’t gotten beyond handshakes and pleasantries before the two were swept off somewhere else.

“You know,” Tom said over dinner in a low voice. “Back home, only my mom and dad know about what happened with me and Shiv. And with the company.”

The set of Tom’s jaw and the furrow in his brow suggested he was telling him something important. Greg couldn’t make out what it meant. 

“Who else... Um, when you visit your family, would you see more than your mom and your dad?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, Greg. My family gatherings are huge. Enough to bring the fire department over to do a headcount on more than one occasion.”

“So, like. That’s a lot.” He had no idea what number of people would cause that to happen. Or who all those people could be. “You don’t think they’ve read about it? Online or - or on the news?”

“They haven’t, my mom tells me. Half of them still think I’m chairing ATN and the other half probably never knew where I worked in the first place.”

“Well, what’re you gonna do? You could send out an announcement?”

“No. I mean— No, of course not. It’s not exactly the tone I want to set for this holiday. First time they’re seeing me in a decade. It shouldn’t have to be because I fucked my marriage and my job up.”

“But, um. You’re only able to make the trip because. Because you’re no longer... occupied. With that. How would you explain...?”

“With a lie,” Tom supplied flatly. “We’re gonna have to lie to them. Okay? Like, a lot. You good with that?”

“Are you good with that?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “It’ll be easy enough. Why wouldn’t it be.”

“Okay then. Yeah.” He knew that he was good at lying for Tom. It was something he had been doing for as long as they’d known each other, actually. But now, it was a little different. Greg took a breath and asked slowly, “And us? What are we gonna tell them about you and me?”

Tom cocked his head, his expression cold. “That’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“I mean, nobody’s going to know, because we’re not going to tell them. They don’t need to know about you and me or what we do or don’t do together.”

“Okay,” Greg nodded. “Right. They won’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For non-Americans (because I know how confusing US holidays are): American Thanksgiving takes place on the fourth Thursday of each November. Some (but not all) people get the preceding Wednesday off of work. These two dunces took Tuesday and Wednesday off, which is not always an easy feat to manage. Good for them.

When Greg turned 18, he and his mom had been living in Hartford for two years. Neither of them felt all that attached to the place, so it wasn't a big deal when they both left it. After packing up what little they had, Greg was off to college and his mom was off to live someplace in London. Greg had never been to London, but she told him that she had a friend there who would help her move.

“I need a change,” his mom had said. “We both need a change.”

College was okay, but it got a little complicated after his second year. He got a call from his mom's friend in London about some trouble that his mom got into. When she had moved out of the country, Greg hoped that it meant that she would stop taking her pills. She didn't. He flew over and tried to help her for a few weeks, but if he knew what he was doing, he would have done it for her years ago. All he could do was be physically present for her, so that was what he did for a couple months. He put his university enrollment on pause by putting in a leave of absence, then ended up not going back at all. His grades weren’t so great anyway.

Back in America, Greg got by on his own. He tried the community college thing here and there. He held down a few jobs. He felt like he was doing pretty well for himself, until he got involved with one of his mom’s former colleagues. His name was Warren and he was generous, kind, and thoughtful in a way that nobody ever was. He was also more than twice Greg’s age and married to a woman well-acquainted with Greg’s mom. Warren promised him a lot of things, and Greg would have done anything to hold his attention. It made him reckless and he made some bad choices. The only difference from his usual bad choices was that his mom had a lot to say about it.

She was never one to do him favors, so she made a show of getting him into the management training program for Brightstar Adventure Parks. She even reprimanded him for not asking for help earlier. Greg got a kick out of that conversation. He moved to some town he had never heard of. He went through the training program and got placed in one of the parks. Then he got fired.

If Greg was remembering correctly, it was a little over seven years since he last saw his mom in-person. He still called her to ask about tax stuff or, for a short while, Roy family stuff. That was enough for him.

Greg asked Tom questions about St. Paul in the weeks leading up to their trip. He asked about Tom’s family and the likelihood of snow. He asked about his mom and his dad and the house he grew up in. Greg tried not to assault him with a barrage of questions, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was under-prepared. 

"Think of it as tagging along like an emotional support hamster," Tom told him, unbothered. They were almost at the airport and traffic was already really bad. "They'll look at you like you're fancy living room decor and move on."

"Right. Because I'm just your roommate."

"Exactly. People bring their friends or coworkers all the time. I mean, I'm pretty sure I remember that happening."

Greg's palms were sweating. "You're calm about this? Like, you're ready to see your family?"

"Yeah. Actually, you know what? You should keep freaking out about this." Tom reached over to squeeze his shoulder and shake him a little. "It's making me feel calm."

Greg let out a deep breath and sunk down in the passenger seat. His knee bent and his leg went up, hitting the underside of the dashboard with a thud. He needed to get used to this. They were flying economy. “Do you think we’ll find parking?”

“There’s gotta be something. Who knew it’d be this bad so early in the week?” Tom said, jutting his chin out to gesture at all the cars and people clogging up the streets and crosswalks. “It’s, like, what? Tuesday?”

“Not that early in the week, I guess.”

Once they found parking, they wove around all the people crammed into the airport terminal. Neither of them had ever been to this particular airport and they got turned around twice. Nevertheless, there was some comfort in not having to step foot in LaGuardia.

Greg thought about the last time he spent a holiday with his mom and dad, all of them together as a family unit. He remembered lying on the floor behind the couch listening to his CD player while his mom’s shrill voice traveled from the kitchen. He got really good at knowing when his parents were gonna start yelling before it happened. That was back in his preteens, before he got too tall to blend in with the wallpaper at his mom’s work potlucks.

While waiting in line at security, Greg bent down to whisper in Tom’s ear. “Should we, you know, have a safe word?”

Tom threw him a withering look. “What’s the matter with you?”

“No, not like— Not like a sex thing. It’s more like, if I do something wrong in front of your family, and— And you need me to get out of there. You should give a signal, okay? It can be, um. Postal? How about ‘postal’?”

“Postal. And you stop what you’re doing and leave the room.” He nodded slowly, studying Greg’s face. A glint of mutual understanding passed between them. Tom smiled appreciatively. “We should’ve had this system in place years ago.” 

Then Tom glanced over his shoulder and back at Greg. He stepped to the side, widening the distance between the two of them. He cleared his throat, eyes downcast. Greg knew what it meant. Starting now, they needed to play their parts. 

They took a taxi from the airport to Tom’s childhood home. Tom explained that his mom was busy at work and his dad was entertaining guests at the house. “My cousin. And her family, I guess. She’s got a husband and children now.”

“Do you know her?”

“She’s my cousin,” Tom answered plainly.

Out the window, Greg could see skyscrapers in the shape of any other city’s buildings. Tom told him that his family lived a way’s away from the heart of the city and Greg tried to imagine what the neighborhood looked like. He imagined trees with fat stumps and branches and clean, white houses all in a row. 

“My dad’s asking if you’re hungry,” Tom said, holding up his phone.

Greg blinked a few times before answering, “Sure.” He watched Tom hunch over his phone to presumably type out a response. Tom had dark circles under his eyes. Greg was relieved to see him sleep throughout most of the flight. Tom was knocked out enough to let his head rest on Greg's shoulder while he dozed. But Greg felt achy, a little restless. He needed to stretch his legs and maybe run around. He wondered if Tom’s parents had a dog, but decided not to ask. Dogs were a sore subject for Tom. Tom once told him the story of how he had to put Mondale down at the same time that he was settling his divorce.

Greg turned his head towards Tom from across the backseat of the taxi cab. Tom’s hand was there, palm down on the seat next to him, and Greg wanted to hold it. He sighed and kept his hands to himself. He worried at his own knuckle with his teeth. 

When they arrived, Tom’s father rushed out to meet them in the driveway. “Would you look at you two!" he exclaimed. "Looks like the debt collector sent their biggest guys for the shakedown!”

"Hey, Dad. Good to see you," Tom said, graciously accepting a pat on the back. "This is Greg. Mom invited him to come with me."

Tom’s father told Greg to call him “Donny” and Greg wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that. The house smelled nice. Mr. Wambsgans, wearing an apron, explained that he had pigs in a blanket baking in the oven and a chicken taco hotdish cooling on the counter. Greg couldn’t comprehend what half of that meant, so he settled with smiling and saying, “Sounds great.”

In the living room, Tom’s cousin Candace exchanged greetings seated at the couch with a sleeping baby in her arms. Candace looked closer to Greg’s age, but more put-together than him with her posture upright and her light brown hair in a neat bun. There was another child on the floor occupied with an iPad. Candace said, “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I'd stand, but I just got her to fall asleep.”

“No worries, totally understandable." Tom took a seat on the couch next to her. “My gosh. Let me join you, it’s been ages. How are you doing?”

Greg knew not to sit down next to Tom and wandered into the kitchen instead. Mr. Wambsgans was there, elbows-deep in the kitchen sink. Greg asked, “Need any help?”

“Oh, no. There’s no way I’m putting you to work. This is your vacation.” He spoke with that odd cadence Greg had always associated with Tom. Kind of like the vocal equivalent of a rollercoaster. “Have a seat. Tell me about yourself, Greg.”

Greg sat down with his legs stretched out across the kitchen floor, flexing his toes absently. “About me?”

“Tommy tells me that you work at a nursing home. Are you in the medical field?”

“I mean, I’m CPR certified? But I just work at the pool there. As a... kind of like a lifeguard?”

“So you’re a swimmer.”

“Sure, I wade from time to time.”

Mr. Wambsgans gave a boisterous laugh, identical to Tom’s. It made Greg laugh along with him. He said, “I take it you grew up in a coastal state? You strike me as one of those metropolitan urban kids.”

Greg shrugged. “I spent some time in Long Island when I was young. And a little while in New Jersey, but not near any beaches.” He felt Mr. Wambsgans’ eyes on him and braced for a question about his parents. “You sure you don’t need a hand with the, uh, the cooking or anything?”

“Can you hold a plate?”

“I can try.”

“That’s the attitude we’re lookin’ for.” Mr. Wambsgans handed him a plate to hold and shoveled food onto that plate. The food was not at all taco-like, but the hotdish was verifiably made in a dish that was hot. Mr. Wambsgans showed him pigs in a blanket, which were tiny hot dogs wrapped in a dough. He sent Greg out to the living room with two plates of food.

Tom hopped up to his feet and took both from Greg. “Dad! Why is Greg serving the food?”

Mr. Wambsgans stuck his head out of the kitchen and answered, “Because he’s a good citizen contributing to the community. Someone has to be.”

“Oh my god,” Tom grumbled. “Greg. Sit, sit. I’ll do the rest.”

Greg sat in an armchair, as instructed. Candace and the older child clanked forks against their plates, while the baby slept soundly in a carrier thing in the corner. The living room was crowded but not cramped, full of furniture, books, and framed photographs on every side of the room. A model train ambled down a track mounted high up on the walls and wrapped around the whole room. Greg peered at a family photo, an old picture of Mr. and Mrs. Wambsgans standing behind a boy with a toothy grin and a bright bow tie. Greg recognized that grin.

“You know,” Candace said from across the room, “you look so familiar. Tell me if I’m crazy, but have I seen you somewhere on TV?”

“What— I don’t think... Like, in movies?”

“Actually. Are you one of Tom’s friends from the company? I’m a corporate lawyer, so watching Tommy at that congressional hearing on TV last year was like a nightmare to me. I swear I must’ve seen you there.”

“I, uh...” Shit.

“He was in an ad!” Tom jumped in. “He’s done some modeling. In his youth. Long ago. You must have seen one of his ads. Or stock photos, even.” He handed Greg a plate of food.

“You do have that look about you.”

“Generically alluring! Vaguely haunting, like something out of an ASPCA commercial." Tom sat at the far couch with his eyes on Greg who looked back at him queasily. "That was my impression when I first saw him, too.”

"So you don't model anymore?" Candace asked Greg while steadily holding her plate in front of her kid who was poking at it with a fork.

"No, I've, um.” Greg couldn’t see himself passing as a model for three days, let alone one minute. He answered, “I've aged out of, you know, relevancy. Several years ago. That’s not what I do anymore.”

She nodded. "Sure, the industry is a real bloodsport. More power to you for getting out in one piece."

While Mr. Wambsgans was clearing away the lunch plates, the baby let out a shriek that shattered Greg's nerves. Greg was about to stand and leave the room, but Candace and Tom both stood to attend to the child. Candace held the baby in her arms, while Tom prodded at its thick arms sympathetically.

"What's the matter, Gigi?" Tom asked in a high pitch. "Are you hungry?"

The baby responded in an elongated cry, her face pinched together in distress. Candace said, "Tommy, can you hold her? I'm gonna get her bottle."

"Sure thing. Come here, sweetheart." He accepted the crying baby smoothly, while Greg looked on curiously. He looked comfortable bouncing the baby in his arms gently. Tom hushed her and the shrieking subsided. The baby, Gigi, suddenly aware of her surroundings, ran her eyes over the room placidly. She had wispy strawberry blond hair and wide, blue eyes. 

Tom looked up at Greg, his eyes wet. 

"What?" Greg asked.

"In another life, I could've had one just like her."


	3. Chapter 3

Not long after lunch, Mrs. Wambsgans arrived with a minivan full of people. More family members. Then Candace’s husband arrived with a car full of more people. The noise level in the house ramped up considerably and Greg wandered into the backyard, idly milling about the patio near two guys smoking clove cigarettes. Greg ran his hands flat against the deck railing and studied the landscape ahead of him. It was a sunless day and the sky grew darker, now that it was getting to be late in the afternoon. He could see into five neighboring yards from over the fence. All around him were endless rows of houses with sprawling yards, but it was so quiet.

Once or twice, Greg had thought about buying a house. He had enough money saved up, but he knew it would’ve required him to decide on a single place to live. He was okay with renting for the foreseeable future, as long as it meant freedom of movement. It was tough finding a suitable place without a year-long lease, but he figured it was better not to presume commitment.

"Hey, Greg?" 

"Oh. Hey, Candace. Everything okay?" 

Candace closed the sliding doors behind her and stood next to him. Her jaw worked slightly, but she stopped herself. She glanced at the guys smoking and jerked her head to the side, motioning for Greg to follow her down the porch and onto the lawn. Greg was concerned.

She said, "So, I did some googling on you."

He was going to hop the fence.

Candace saw the look on his face and laughed, but it didn't feel mean or malicious. She added, "No, it's okay. You're good. I haven’t told anyone. Tommy was never a good liar. And for the record, neither are you."

"H-how much, um. What did you find out?"

"I already knew that you both used to work for Waystar Royco. But I found out he isn't 'taking a break' from his work there. Or his wife. You know this is all online, right?" She watched and waited for his reaction. Greg tried very hard not to breathe the wrong way. When he didn't say anything, she stated frankly, "I like you two."

"You— what?"

"I don’t blame either of you. Not for your blatant perjury, then or now. I looked up to Tommy when I was a kid, you know. I had my own stint in New York, tried to make it in the Big Apple. Broadway. Off-Broadway. Anybody who would take me," she said. She stepped up onto a wooden bench gracefully, minimizing the height difference between the two of them. She walked back and forth down the length of the bench, walking it toe-to-heel like a tightrope. "But you can probably guess it didn’t go the way that I hoped. Tommy doesn't know the whole story. Not a lot of people do, besides my therapist, my husband, and Pauline."

"Pauline?"

She swiveled back to face Greg, slipping her hands into her coat pockets. "Tom's mom. She helped me get back on my feet, after I hit rock bottom in New York. Not even my own parents know how bad it got. So yeah, I know what it's like to want to edit the truth when you're back home. I get it." It was getting dark. The porch lights went on and Candace didn't flinch. "Tommy's in a transitional period. Recovering, I think."

Greg let her words settle in his head for a moment. He knew that Tom was in a rough stage of his life, but he could never tell with certainty what was a symptom of recovery and what was really him. "What was he like before this? I mean, before he moved to New York." 

"Oh, he was always snippy and insecure. Messy as hell. Aspirational to a fault. But when he let his guard down, he was sweet. Like he is with you."

Greg conjured a look of disbelief. 

Candace laughed. "Don't let him bully you into doing anything you don't want to do, okay? All I'm saying. Do you think I should tell Tom what I know?"

"Y'know... yeah. I think. I think that could be good. It’ll scare him at first, but...”

“But he’ll feel less alone.”

“Yeah. I think he will.”

“There you are!” They turned around to see Tom standing at the edge of the porch. Tom said, “What are you guys doing out here? It’s freezing. Come back inside, Greg. My mom wants to talk to you.”

Candace leaned forward and whispered, "Talk later."

Tom led him upstairs and to the doorway of a room where Mrs. Wambsgans was tossing piles of blankets onto a bed.

“Greg,” she sighed, hands at her hips. “I was going to put you in the guest room for tonight, but I wasn’t expecting Candace and the gang to arrive this early in the week. I had Donny set up the cot here in Tommy’s room for you to sleep on, but this is no good. Absolutely awful.” She waved her hand towards a flat thing with four metal bars framed around a mesh surface in the corner of the room. “So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna call around and find a hotel room for you. I just wanted to run it by you before I—”

“I can take the floor. This is fine,” Greg interjected. He glanced at Tom who was aggressively avoiding eye contact. “Unless - unless... Tom?”

Tom nodded. “No, sure. It’s fine. It’s not a problem.”

Mrs. Wambsgans looked at both of them with her brow arched. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, it looks, you know, cozy. I’m not that picky about sleeping arrangements.”

“Tom. Thoughts?”

“If Greg says it's okay, then it’s totally fine.”

Mrs. Wambsgans replied, skeptical, "If you say so. Because I know how you are about sharing.”

Tom's shoulders rose up to his ears and his eyes went wide. "Jeez, Mom."

Charitably, she laughed and patted Tom on the arm as she squeezed past both of them in the hallway. In a stage whisper, she said to Tom, “Let me know if you change his mind."

Alone, Tom and Greg stood parallel to one another, both leaning against the door frame of Tom's childhood room. Greg grinned at Tom who wore a dry expression on his face. He looked completely wrung out. "How's it going?" Greg asked.

He shook his head and rubbed at his brow. “I feel like a giant fucking balloon animal."

"Is it that bad?"

Tom dropped his hand and his shoulders, then breathed, "No, it's fine." He looked so downtrodden with worry lines in his face. Greg wanted to smooth it down for him. He extended his arm to reach out and touch Tom's face, but Tom jerked back and muttered an apology as he brushed past him and down the hall. Greg could only stand there and watch him go.

Dinner involved a large cauldron of soup and a sizable crowd of people sitting on whatever surface they could find around the living room. Greg did what he could to tuck his legs under the barstool he sat on, willing himself not to kick any of the three kids sitting below him on the floor. Tom, across the room and wedged between his mom and an older man whose name Greg forgot, laughed along to a story Candace’s husband told about a deer and a zipline. 

The crowd thinned out after dinner. Somehow, Greg got pulled into learning how to play Chinese checkers by Trina, Candace's older daughter. She told him that she was eight years old and from Michigan, but hadn't seen all the Great Lakes in person yet. Trina was very good at Chinese checkers and Greg suspected that her patience with him was running thin. In any case, from where he was sitting on the couch, he could see Tom talking to Candace in the stairwell. He couldn't hear what was being said, but he trusted that it was good.

Greg asked Trina, "What color squirrels do you get in Ann Arbor?"

"They're brown. Aren't the ones in New York brown, too?"

"No, you’re right. They are, but I saw some up where my grandpa lives in Canada. They were black. I figured Michigan might be similar."

Trina rested her chin on her fist and nibbled at the chain around her neck that held a large purple crystal. She didn't take her eyes off the game board while she told him, "When I went to New York, I saw a squirrel with a dead baby squirrel in his mouth. He was eating it for lunch."

"Yeah, I don't think we were meant to have so many in the city."

Candace emerged and squatted down to tuck a strand of Trina's hair behind her ear. “Hey, babe. Come and brush your teeth. It’s almost eleven.”

Trina whipped her head to the side to gape at her mom. “But I’m beating Greg.”

“I can wait,” he said, nodding.

“Thanks, Greg. She'll take five minutes tops,” Candace reassured both of them. “Get a move on, kid.”

Trina crawled halfway across the living room on all fours, then scuttled down the hall. Greg sat back, rubbing his knees while Candace collected a pile of candy wrappers from where Trina was sitting on the floor.

“Where did Tom go?" Greg asked.

"I think he went up to his room."

"Is he okay?"

She nodded, coming up from the floor to stand. "We talked. He's got a lot on his mind. I think it might be your turn to talk to him. I mean, after Trina beats you at Chinese checkers. He's gonna be fine." 

"Right, good. Good."

Tom was already in bed by the time Greg got to his room. He didn’t move when Greg shut the door, but the lights were still on. In a whisper, Greg asked, “Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Tom answered immediately.

Greg stood at the foot of the bed. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked when he shifted his weight. He tried not to move, but he could only see the back of Tom's head. He didn’t know what to do, so he waited.

“It’s been a long day, Greg. Get some sleep.”

He opened and shut his mouth, wanting to object. Wanting to talk. But he knew there was no use prodding him. “Okay.” He went away to brush his teeth, turning the lights off on his way out. He wasn't sure if he hoped that Tom would be asleep or awake when he got back.

Greg shifted his shoulders against the cot at the foot of Tom’s bed. There was an excess of quilts beneath him padding the cot, but he could still feel the metal bars digging into his shoulders. He was also about a half a foot too tall, so his legs stuck out and overflowed onto the floor. It was fine, really. He had managed to spend whole nights in worse places. All he needed to do was find the right position to sleep.

A wind chime outside clattered in the distance. Strong gusts of wind had picked up late in the night and Greg wondered if he should have kept his socks on to keep himself warm. He turned onto his side, but his foot jerked outwards and hit the hardwood floor with a solid thud.

“Greg, what are you doing?” Tom asked.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “That was just my heel. Adjusting.” He tensed up his limbs and stayed very still, hoping to restore the quiet in the room. 

After a moment, Tom gave a long, audible sigh. He said, “Come up here. You fucking street lamp. Quietly.”

Greg climbed out of his pile of blankets and slipped into Tom’s. In the narrow bed, their arms, legs, and shoulders tangled in a flurry as they figured out how to fit themselves together. Greg wrapped a leg around Tom’s hip and hooked an arm around his back. Face to face, he blinked at him through the dark of the room and felt a heady rush of relief at the feel of Tom’s warmth up and down his body. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Tom said.

“How was today? Was it okay, for you?”

Tom took Greg’s hand in answer, bringing it up to his lips and placing a kiss there against his knuckles. “It was okay. It was good, actually.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Tom closed the small space between them, holding Greg’s chin to kiss him soundly. He hummed against Greg’s lips, then pulled away and held there for a while. Tom peered back at Greg in silence, his eyes moving this way and that. He looked like he wanted to say something. His face twitched in thought and Greg watched the conflict play out there.

Tom blurted out, “We have to be really quiet.”

“Okay. I can be quiet.”

“Good.” Tom crawled on top of Greg, pinning his back flat against the bed. His mouth left a searing trail up the length of Greg’s neck and Greg breathed a shuddering breath. Tom whispered against Greg’s ear, “I never imagined having a boy in this bed with me.”

“And, um... and now?”

“Now, I can’t imagine anything other than sucking your cock.”

“Oh.” 

Here was the thing about Greg, Tom, and sex: there was more talk than action. They riled each other up with making out, then at a certain point, Tom would stop them or walk out of the room without warning. After making sure that Tom was okay (which he sometimes wasn’t), Greg would sometimes go to his room to jerk off by himself and not press Tom about it any further.

So, the feeling of Tom's insistent hand against Greg’s cock through his pants was new. Very new.

“Don’t talk me out of this, Greg. Don’t fucking say anything, please.”

“Uh huh. I won’t. I won’t.” Dazed, his mouth fell open as Tom’s hand slipped past his waistband and around the base of his hardening cock. Tom let out a small incoherent affirming sound against the side of his face, then lowered himself between Greg’s legs. With effort, they got his pants down his legs, and Tom’s mouth was on Greg’s cock, immediate and eager.

Greg clasped a hand around his mouth, barely containing the groan that traveled up his throat. Tom dug his fingers into the meaty undersides of Greg’s thighs, spreading his legs wider as he ran his lips up the length of his cock. Greg shuddered as a rush of heat shot down his chest and Tom lapped up the precome beading at the tip of his dick. Tom’s mouth sunk deeper around it, wet noises filling the room.

Greg balled his free hand into a fist at his side, not wanting to take control of the pace but desperately wanting to shove Tom’s mouth down even deeper and faster. He managed to squeak out, “Tom.”

Tom grunted in response, mouth full. It was sloppy and occasionally sharp. The soft tissue in the back of Tom’s throat convulsed in a gag against the head of his cock, but Tom didn’t stop. He eventually got a hang of moving his mouth and hand around Greg’s length and sucking until Greg’s breathing quickened and Greg pawed at Tom’s shoulder uselessly before he came in Tom’s mouth. Tom swallowed it down with admirable determination until he choked and coughed against Greg’s hip.

Greg’s head swam. It was a good feeling. He blindly groped for Tom’s arm or something, pulling him up to eye level. His sweat was cooling and he was getting cold. He didn’t know where his pants were.

“You okay?” Tom asked, breathless.

Greg kissed Tom’s face, little pecks wherever he could reach. “Good.”

“I did good?”

“Yeah. Really good.” He covered Tom’s body with his own and hugged him tightly, laughing quietly into the curve of his neck. Tom laughed with him.

Greg woke to a rustling sound somewhere nearby. It was an orange morning as the thin curtains of the room barely filtered out the light of the sun. The wind last night must have blown away the clouds. Tom was sitting at the desk by the window, his back turned to Greg and his hair in disarray. He was flipping through an old spiral-bound notebook, the paper crinkling with each movement. Tom turned page after page like he was looking for something.

"Hey," Greg said in greeting as he sat up in Tom's bed.

Tom didn't turn around, but his shoulders went up by an inch. He rubbed at his face with the back of his hand and made a small sniffling sound.

"Tom?"

"Hey," he responded after a moment, voice coming out deep. He didn't quite meet Greg's eyes. The notebook went away in the desk drawer. "I'm gonna shower."

Greg crawled out of bed to stop Tom in the middle of the room. He bent his head low, hovering close to Tom’s face in the way that Tom hated. 

Tom took a step back and chuckled. "Catching up on some Faulkner, you know? 'My mother is a fish.' He just gets me." With his jaw set, he looked up at Greg with his eyes red-rimmed but willful. Together, they said nothing. Then Tom breathed out in a huff, shaking his head. "Whatever. It's teenage drama shit. It's me. It's nothing."

Greg didn't say anything, but didn't let him go. He grasped Tom's hand and stood still like a roadblock. Tom blinked at him, maybe accusatory. Maybe disbelieving.

"This is gonna sound fucking ridiculous," Tom took his hand away and sat on the bed. "But I kept journals throughout high school. Real whiny bullshit, immortalized in a pile of notebooks. I was reading them. Just now, because I'm some sort of masochist."

Greg nodded, sitting down with him but also not really knowing where this was going.

"And it's like, why didn't I know? Why didn’t I realize? I wrote the most obvious things when I was 17 years old, for god's sake. I wrote things like, 'I was talking to John and Steven the other day about types of girls we like. I'd never thought about that. Maybe I'll figure out my type in college when I'm not so busy with schoolwork.' Like, come the fuck on. What is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Nothing's wrong with you." He leaned his weight against the side of Tom's arm, just slightly. His body shifted along with Tom's sigh.

Tom said decisively, "I should tell my parents about me. I should tell, I don't know. People."

"I guess if it's important for you to do that, then you should."

"It makes sense, right? They should know. I should tell them." Tom sat nodding to himself, working things out in his head. 

Greg had nothing to add to help him out, but he wasn't opposed to Tom doing things on his own terms. Greg didn't come out to either of his parents on purpose. His mom only found out because Warren's wife confronted her about what Greg was doing. After the dust settled, his mom gave his dad an earful, accusing him of passing on the trait of being a two-faced homewrecking fag or something like that. His dad had forwarded him a screenshot of some of her angry text messages, then offered some vague words of support. All in all, if Greg had a choice, he would have liked it if his parents never found out that he was gay.

They heard dishes clattering downstairs, sounds of the start of the day. Tom picked up his watch from the desk to check the time and said, "I've gotta shower, for real this time." He stood, planting a kiss against Greg's forehead on the way out.

There was distant chatter and sinks running somewhere down the hall downstairs, but it was only Tom’s mom in the kitchen when Greg came in. She offered him coffee, which he declined for a glass of water. 

"Very health-conscious of you," she praised. She held an empty mug in one hand and a carton of milk in the other. "I was about to take some up to Tommy. He's a real beast without caffeine in the morning. Although I can't remember for the life of me how he likes it."

"I can—" Greg offered, "I've got it."

Mrs. Wambsgans handed the mug over and watched him put together Tom's coffee concoction.

"It's, um. It's kind of like a latte, but not really,” Greg explained.

"How odd. You know how to take care of him better than I do."

Flustered, Greg spilled some milk on the counter. "I guess that's, uh. Like, I just notice things, as his roommate."

"No, it's okay. I know I’m not supposed to talk about this, but you were his assistant, right? At Waystar. He must have been such a handful."

"He was good. When it came down to the important things, he was one of the better people I met. I wouldn't have followed him out here if he wasn't, you know?"

Mrs. Wambsgans smiled up at him, gratefully. With a thin checkered dish towel, she dried some bowls from the dryer rack. She asked over her shoulder, "Are you taking the apartment when he leaves in a couple months?"

Greg paused. His shoulders fell. "S-sorry? When he leaves?"

She looked at him, eyes wide. "Oh no. Tom hasn't told you yet. Drat. You didn't hear that from me."

"Where is he moving? Back here?"

She covered her mouth with a hand. She groaned, "Oh, I'm in trouble. Sorry, Greg. That's a conversation he'll have with you when the time comes. I really put my foot in it.” She came up to him and squeezed his elbow, apologetic. “Let Tom know that we’ve gotta head out by ten for brunch, okay?”

“Shower’s all yours.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He pointed to the mug on Tom’s desk. “Your mom told me to bring you coffee.” He slipped past Tom and headed for the bathroom.

He didn’t want to talk, not while he was feeling like this. He ran questions and doubts through his head, wondering when Tom started planning his move. Not for the first time, Greg wondered if it bothered Tom that he wasn’t as ambitious anymore. He was no longer a workplace threat to Tom. He knew that they lacked the spark from before, back when Tom looked at him like he was something to catch and kill. Back then, it had gotten their blood running and it was exciting and dangerous. It was also unsustainable. Greg wasn’t that person anymore, but neither was Tom. At least, that was what he had thought to make himself feel better. 

Greg wasn’t a stranger to forbidden romances. He knew it was a shitty thing to indulge in. When he was young and stupid, he honestly thought Warren would leave his wife for him. So, of course he never had any illusions about his situation with Tom, up until they weren’t illusions at all. Now, Greg wasn’t sure what was real anymore. It was just as possible that Greg was still chasing after that high of indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to have, like an addict gone too long without his last hit.

Maybe Tom liked keeping him as a dirty little secret, too. Which was why he chose last night to suck him off. With his parents sleeping right down the hall. Maybe there was something about Greg that brought that out in people.

Stepping out of the shower, Greg pressed the towel against his face. He brought his shoulders up and felt the stretch of his muscles there, wanting to feel some sort of relief. A handful of trusted people in his life had told him that deceit and destruction was in his blood, and they were probably right. He was trying to be better than that. He was going to be better.


	4. Chapter 4

The Wambsgans family and Greg loaded up into the minivan to get to an even bigger house. On the way there, Mr. Wambsgans explained to Greg the connection between them and the Peterson family that they were visiting. Along with the explanation came a story of how Tom had a schoolboy crush on Alma Peterson when he was a kid.

“That is not what happened,” Tom protested in the back seat. 

“You were 12 years old,” Mr. Wambsgans said. “How could you remember what did or didn’t happen 30 years ago?”

“Precisely. How can you?”

Mrs. Wambsgans chimed in, “Don’t be so nervous, Tommy. You know, she was asking about you. Maybe you two can reconnect.”

“I have her on Facebook, Mom. Besides, I think it’d be slightly gauche to make a pass at her when it hasn’t even been a year since her husband died.”

“Jeepers creepers,” Mrs. Wambsgans groaned, “I didn’t mean lunge at her. Just talk.”

They were immediately handed flutes of mimosas and ushered through the house to the backyard where a greenhouse-like structure housed the main event. It looked like a wedding venue with white round tables and flowers spread out all over.

“Fuck me. They went all out this year,” Tom murmured to Greg. “I think I’m underdressed for this.”

“Is - is someone getting married here?”

“No,” he said. “At least— I don’t know. This is kind of a lot. Just, uh, don’t tell any of your animal jokes, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Greg asked, but when he turned around, Tom had disappeared into the crowd.

Before brunch was served, Greg was approached point blank by three different women. As far as he could tell, none of them were related to Tom or even the Petersons. They asked him questions about himself and he distantly wondered if he was being recruited by a cult. There were fewer families in attendance than he expected. A lot of single people.

During the meal, he shared a table with Mr. and Mrs. Wambsgans, although he had trouble holding conversation. He craned his neck around to find Tom or listen for his voice. Mrs. Wambsgans spoke while picking at the fruit kabob on her plate, "Greg, I hadn't thought to ask. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, is there romance in your life? Do you have a girl back home?"

“Ah.” Contorting the muscles in his face, he trained his expression into something more neutral. More natural. “No, it’s just me.”

“You should mingle then. Maybe that Minnesota charm will rub off on you. Take it back to New York and the girls will adore you for it. I mean, not that they don’t already, I’m sure.”

Greg nodded absently, looking over his shoulder and into the crowd again. Soon after, Mrs. Wambsgans wished him luck and she and her husband wandered away. Moving through the place, he felt like he was being watched. He stamped down on his impulse to run by gnawing on a dry crostini with his back to the wall. 

Tom emerged from the sea of people with a shell-shocked look in his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“What’s going on?”

“I was talking with Agnes. You know, Alma’s mom. And she told me that Alma set this up as a pre-Thanksgiving-slash-single mingle brunch. I was totally wrong about Alma not looking to date. Completely wrong.”

“So, like. Is she... is she trying to date you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. There are dozens of other single men here too.”

Greg brought his head down even further, alarms blaring in his head. “And they? Are they looking to date too?”

Tom exclaimed through gritted teeth, “It’s a fucking single mingle brunch!“

“Can we leave? Can we go? Because I wanted to talk to you, anyway. About something.”

“No, I’m not leaving,” he scowled. “You’re free to go, but there’s no angle here for me to gracefully bow out. How would I explain that to my parents?”

“I thought you wanted to tell them about...?”

“Greg, I’m not discussing that with them at a Get Out party for straight people. Are you fucking kidding me? We shouldn’t even be talking to each other here. Blend in.” 

Greg didn't want to blend in. He wanted to keep an eye on Tom before he could slip away again. He wanted to tell him that they shouldn’t have to blend in. After taking a few steps, Tom tried to shoo him away with a wave.

“Tom, we should—"

“My fucking god,” he bristled. “Please situate yourself elsewhere. Just for a couple hours. Who knew you could be so clingy?”

He froze in his tracks, struck by Tom’s words like Tom had just punched him in the face. Greg let him go. He retreated to a far corner, scanning the place for exits and wondering whether he could find some weed. Something to take the edge off. Spite wasn't a good look on him and he knew better to act on it. Suddenly, a woman blocked his line of sight. She was relatively tall and had a sardonic look about her face, eyes in a slant like she had him figured out.

“Well, you’re tall,” she stated.

“Uh, yeah. So are you.”

"It's the shoes." She gave him an appraising once-over. The side of her red lips went up in a smirk. “Word on the street is you’re from New York. How’s that?”

“There’s - People have been talking? About me?”

“The fact that you’re surprised about it tells me for sure that you’re not from around here. It’s okay. I don’t claim to be, either.”

“I’m not really claiming anything,” Greg said, eyes landing on Tom from afar. He was talking to a woman about his age. He appeared to be nodding rapidly, sullenly like he was being reprimanded.

"Could have fooled me." His talking partner looked over her shoulder to follow his gaze. She gave an interested hum. “Got an eye on my sister?”

“Who?”

“You came with Tom Wambsgans, right? He’s talking to my half-sister, Alma.”

“Th-that’s Alma Peterson? And you’re—?”

“Judith,” she said. “I bet she’s giving him hell about how he files his taxes or something equally shitty. You want to get closer and listen in?”

“Yeah, actually. Can we?”

She nodded and they drifted closer to where Tom and Alma were talking. Judith positioned herself in front of Greg so that Greg got a decent view of the look on Tom’s face. She asked, “Okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He heard Alma saying, “You should have some of your own as soon as possible. It gets harder the older you get, you know. Start now or it’s never gonna happen. That’s what the doctor told me and that was a couple years ago. You want kids, right?”

Tom brought his mouth into a grin. It looked precarious, like it could drop if he wasn’t careful. “Yeah. I mean, maybe.”

“If you do, you should drop those reservations now. In hindsight, I was being silly for so many years. What’s the hold-up for you?”

“It— Well, it was a timing thing.” His eyes were to the floor and his hand worried at his brow. “And there were work obligations and she, um.”

“This is your future you’ve gotta think about, Tom. Work goes away at the end of the day, but my kids are my life.”

“God, she’s such an ass,” Judith mumbled.

“This isn’t good. I think I need to—“ In two wide bounds, Greg was at Tom's side. He held him by the elbow, hoping to direct his attention to what he was about to do: “Tom, hey. This might be a good time to check in on the postal service thing? Like, we should check on it now, don’t you think?”

"What postal service thing?" Tom looked at him and Greg looked back, then something clicked. "Oh. Oh. Okay. Sure. I'll catch up with you later, Alma. I have to go.”

"No worries," Alma said. “See you later.”

They rushed out of the greenhouse and out through the side gate. Tom was quiet all the way down the block and Greg stole glances at him here and there. Tom wore a deep frown, eyes lost in thought. They came to a grassy neighborhood park at the end of the block, entirely devoid of people. Gusts of wind tousled Greg’s hair and the windchill nipped at his ears. Greg wavered by a picnic table, not knowing what Tom needed at that moment. He was pacing back and forth, hands stiff at his side. 

He looked at Greg once, twice. “You heard all that, I take it?”

“Yeah, I did.”

He scoffed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “She’s right, you know. I really should just get on with my life." He sounded defeated. "I mean, I’ve wasted so much time.”

“Wasted time? Doing what?”

“Not knowing,” he answered. “Or maybe knowing? I don’t fucking know. I just feel so goddamn exhausted, running up and down convincing myself one way or the other. I’m sick of it. Wouldn't it be better for everyone if I just swallowed my pride and lived how I’m supposed to live until it finally takes?”

Greg couldn’t help but feel affronted. “And how are you supposed to live?”

Tom faced Greg squarely, outrage rising in his voice. “Like how these people do it! With a house and two-point-five children or whatever the fuck. What makes me any different from these loveless schmucks? I already got that far once before. Shouldn't I just make my life easier and try again with a wife, for good this time?”

“Is that what you want?” Greg asked, hurt.

“Isn’t that what everybody wants?”

The thought of that left a bad taste in Greg’s mouth. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. Not for himself and maybe not for Tom, either. Tom was so concerned with what other people wanted. Irate, Greg nearly asked who those "other people" were, but the argument would be lost on Tom. It always had been. Instead, he asked, "Are we breaking up?"

"Why the hell would you ask me that? Why would you ask me that here—today, especially after what we did last night?"

“What we did last night?” Greg shook his head, not entirely on the same page. “Y-you're moving away. I know you are, because your mom told me. It came out by accident, but yeah. You are, aren't you?”

Tom reared his head back. Defensive, he replied, "Why? Does that bother you?"

"Why do you do want to leave me?"

“ _Leave you_? You're the one leaving! You're moving out. You're making arrangements to get away from me. In plain sight, like it's all fucking great. Like it’s not flaying me alive every single day. So, why shouldn't I have an exit strategy of my own?" Tom paused, screwing up his face. He steadied himself briefly, then looked up at Greg. "I knew that— I know that if you leave me and I'm alone again, I won't survive. I could make it through Shiv leaving me. But not you." 

"Tom,” he pleaded. “Tom. You - you told me about what Shiv took, after the divorce. I didn't want that to happen with us. You haven't been sleeping, because of me. I wasn't moving out to leave you. I was moving out to give you space."

"Why— What?” Tom squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re not...? That doesn’t make any sense."

Greg brought his shoulders up. “I just wanted to make things normal for you. Starting a relationship with your roommate isn’t a normal way to start things.”

“Starting a gay relationship with your ex-wife’s younger cousin in the middle of your life isn’t normal. There’s nothing normal about us, Greg. From day one, we’ve been so far from it. There’s nothing we can do to change that.”

“So, is this what you really want?" he asked, incredulous. "Us? This? Because a couple minutes ago, you were just saying—”

“Yes,” Tom said, firm. “Maybe sometimes I hate myself for this, but I want you around, all the time. I'm working on it, okay? Just don’t move out.”

“I shouldn’t move out? Are... you sure?”

He burst out laughing, in that unsettling and charming way that he does. “No. No, of course I’m not sure. This is probably a conversation we’ll have to keep having as we go on, but for now... Please. Don’t move out.”

“Then I won’t. As long as you don’t.”

Tom agreed, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

It was Trina’s birthday, and Trina avowed that they would not be eating Thanksgiving-related food on her birthday, even if it was the day before Thanksgiving. They ate dinner at a pizza parlor in the city. It was a low key place, dimly-lit and slightly grimy. The green booth cushions were split open with its innards raggedy and exposed, and the overhead lamps were caked with dust. Candace insisted that Trina would love it, which she did. Greg did, too.

There was a ten dollar deal that included an all-you-can-eat pizza and ice cream sundae bar. The pizza, in Greg's opinion, was very good. In between slices, Greg showed Trina how to win prizes from the claw machine game.

“Where on earth did you learn how to do this?” Tom muttered when Greg and Trina returned to the table to add onto the colorful conga line of stuffed animals.

Greg shrugged. “Brightstar Adventure Park in Rockland. The continent’s largest Games Land by sq—”

"—square footage. Okay then. Right." Tom eyed him suspiciously. That particular park location took a hit in losses that prompted an investigation the year that Greg worked there. He had nothing to do with it, of course. But he did know that kids that year had much better luck at that park's games arena than any other in the region. He knew the exact stats because he might have done some digging in the archives much later, while he was working under Tom in the Parks division. He had a lot of desk-warming time to kill and he was curious.

They shared Coke from a two-liter bottle, and Greg beamed as he watched Tom drink out of a chipped plastic cup without batting an eye. They couldn’t stop smiling at each other, punch drunk and exhausted from the frankly ridiculous first half of the day. They had spent the rest of brunch at a table together, laughing over mimosas until Tom’s parents cut in to take them home. Greg made sure to thank Judith Peterson on his way out. She laughed when he told her he wasn’t on social media, but said, “No, you know what? Good for you. There aren’t enough people like you in this world.” She shook hands and sent him on his way.

In a little pizza parlor in St. Paul with a collection of Tom’s family, Greg sat at the end of the table with hands greasy and stomach full. He felt airy and weightless, wanting to memorize the way that the dim light cast shadows across Tom’s face and the sounds of Trina’s elated chatter at her mom and baby sister. 

Then he thought of his own mom and all the Thanksgivings that came before. It made him nervous, like they were about to invoke a curse if they carried on into the day without extra caution. Greg leaned forward and said, “So, um. Tomorrow isn't really our first Thanksgiving together.”

"Sure it is."

"You sure about that? Because we were both there, remember? Two years ago, when I was shredding d—”

"Yes, I know. Committing corporate malfeasance. I remember vividly." A guilty look cut across Tom's face. "Do you, uh— I feel like I should apologize or - or, uh—”

“No,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Sorry. That's not what I meant. What did you mean about our first Thanksgiving?”

"Well, the one that we had was never ours to begin with. I figure everything that we had—under the company and the family—belonged to them. But this one, it belongs to ourselves. Not to anyone else.”

Greg liked that a lot. He smiled, nodding. 

At that moment, Mrs. Wambsgans came up from behind and slid into the chair next to Greg. "Hey, I never got to ask you boys how brunch went? Meet anyone interesting?"

Greg met eyes with Tom from across the table. Expression guarded, Tom answered, "No, not particularly."

"That's a shame. I was hoping you'd have a girlfriend all lined up for when you move back here."

"Actually," Tom said, the word dropping the mood of the night down like an anvil. He picked up a crumpled napkin from the table and shuffled it onto his empty plate. "Mommy, I've... um. There's something— I talked about this with some people and thought about it. And I've decided not to move back home for the time being. I'm gonna stay in New York with Greg."

"Oh?" Mrs. Wambsgans kept her eyes on Tom, cocking her head to the side. "Huh."

There was a heavy silence. Greg looked between the two of them, rooting around in his head for ways to change the subject or will the moment to pass. He considered pulling the fire alarm.

Then, Mrs. Wambsgans said, "Greg Hirsch."

"Y-yeah," Greg said. "That's me."

"Hirsch. Is that a Jewish last name?"

Tom groaned, "Oh my god, Mom."

"No, it's okay." Greg laughed. He laughed out of relief, surprise, and utter fondness. "It is. My dad's Jewish. I mean, I think he still is. Me, not so much."

She nodded. "Okay, good. Or, it would be okay if you were. I have nothing against Jews. I have plenty of Jewish friends. It's just—" Mrs. Wambsgans stopped herself and cleared her throat. She turned her shoulders to face Greg and firmly suggested, "You should join us for Christmas next month."

"Oh. Okay, yeah."

Before anything else could be said, Mrs. Wambsgans stood from her seat. She patted Greg on the back and returned to the other end of the table. 

Greg turned his gaze to Tom who wore an expression of mild satisfaction. Tom looked up at him with joy in his eyes and Greg smiled back. He reached a hand across the table, covering Greg’s with his own, and he said, "Welcome to the family."

That night, they laid on top of the covers in Tom’s bed together with Tom tucked under Greg’s arm. They were quiet, winding down from a very loud day. 

“Are you tired?” Tom asked.

“Not really. There’s still, like, a lot of caffeine in my system and usually it takes a while to—”

“Then why don’t we do something to tire you out?”

Slowly, it occurred to Greg what Tom was suggesting, and he found himself slightly unnerved for a handful of reasons. Tom looked up at him expectantly with a growing shadow of doubt, while Greg paused in deep consideration. There were a lot of things that Greg didn’t think needed to be said between the two of them, but their conversation earlier made him think it over. Greg had some things he needed to say out loud and he knew it was going to be uncomfortable. But they needed to talk.

“Hey, so I never told you this, but, um,” he said, a decent start. Greg felt the need to tear himself away from underneath Tom. He stayed where he was. “So like, this was before I met you. Okay? And uh, there was this time, like for almost two years? And during that time, I was having sex with a married man.”

Tom sat up slowly. “Okay. What the fuck."

Greg swallowed uncomfortably, avoiding Tom’s eyes as he brought his back flat against the head of the bed. “Yeah. Yeah, so. I liked him a lot. And I thought that if I did whatever he wanted me to do with him, he’d keep coming back. I thought that every time he wanted me, he really loved me. But...”

“He didn’t.”

“Right. He didn’t.” Greg looked back at Tom, wanting to gauge his reaction. Tom looked concerned, but attentive. Greg decided to continue, “Sex isn’t something that’ll convince me to stay or go, is what I think I’m saying. I don’t want it to be proof of anything. But I’m thinking that’s what it might be for you?”

Tom nodded, considering his words. He moved up the bed, bringing himself next to Greg, shoulder-to-shoulder. He said, “I used to make a mental note on my calendar when I was with Shiv. I wanted to make sure that I pleased her enough, sexually. And it was like, if there was ever a rift between us, I thought to myself, ‘Shit, did I forget? Did I lose track of my calendar? Did I do whatever enough?’ I mean, I know it was nothing short of crackpot astrology. Superstition. But for a while, I believed it. I think you’re right. Last night, it was that. That, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could do things with you and that I could enjoy it.”

“Did you? Enjoy it, I mean?” Greg asked, apprehensive.

“Yeah. I did, Greg.”

“I did, too."

"But yeah. I get what you're saying." Tom nodded. He took Greg’s hand and held it in his lap. "I get it and you're right. We're going to be better than that."

"Yeah, we are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you too need to maneuver a desperate exit from single mingle brunch, follow my tumblr @ waystar-roycos


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